


Married in Dorne

by Whedonista93



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Las Vegas Wedding, Professor Tyrion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23460130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whedonista93/pseuds/Whedonista93
Summary: Tyrion will go to his grave wishing he heard whatever asinine comment his nephew makes that finally causes sweet young Sansa Stark to snap.
Relationships: Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 31
Kudos: 193





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dorne = Vegas (yes, the whole country)

Tyrion will go to his grave wishing he heard whatever asinine comment his nephew makes that finally causes sweet young Sansa Stark to snap.

One moment, she’s drinking and laughing and the next she’s standing over Joffrey, face nearly as red as her hair, pointing a finger in his face. "Damn you to the deepest pits of the hells, Joff! I don't need a thing from you, you pompous little ass!"

Joffrey stays sprawled in his seat and sneers up at his - Tyrion is assuming now ex - girlfriend and scoffs. "As if anyone would dare touch what was mine."

"I am not property," Sansa snarls.

Tyrion mentally applauds her finally finding the steel in her spine. 

Joffrey shrugs. "All the same."

The glint that enters Sansa's eye makes Tyrion lean forward in interest. "Not everyone is afraid of you, Joff."

The little prick just smirks.

Sansa raises an eyebrow and smirks back. "This is Dorne, after all. I could leave this trip married and you couldn't do a damn thing to stop me. I'm sure I could find someone who doesn't even know your name."

Joffrey’s jaw ticks.

Sansa brings a hand up to tap her chin. "That wouldn't prove the point though, would it? The point is to find someone who knows you and would marry me anyway..."

Joffrey rolls his eyes.

Tyrion has a terrible idea, and is just drunk enough to voice it. "You know, my dear, his kin would best make your point."

Sansa looks at him incredulously.

He shrugs. "And fierce though you may be, my lady, I would put my money on Brienne if you went after Jaime.”

Sansa's look turns calculating. "Are you asking me to marry you, Tyrion?"

Tyrion stops and thinks it over, briefly, then nods. "I believe I am."

Sansa smiles. "I accept."

Sansa wakes up slowly, groggily, in what is very clearly not her hotel room. It’s far grander than the basic room Cersei booked for her when Joffrey insisted on bringing her along for the Lannister business trip/vacation. In hindsight, Sansa thinks it should have been telling that neither of the protested separate rooms, despite the fact they live together.

She stretches out over the soft sheets and winces when she feels the zipper of her dress pinch her side. She glances down and finds she’s still in the shimmering blue cocktail dress she’d selected last night. When she reaches up to straighten the garment, a flash on her left hand catches her eye and she gapes down at the exquisite ring on her hand.

A massive, crystal clear diamond - that somehow reminds her of ice - is flanked by two sparkling rubies on a gold band. Two more bands - both a grayish silver that is a near exact match for the direwolf of her house sigil - sit on either side of the gold band. The whole arrangement shouldn’t work, but somehow ties together rather elegantly.

A light snore draws her attention and she turns her head to find Tyrion, still in the black suit he was wearing last night, dead asleep on the room’s sofa. He snores again and Sansa can’t help but giggle. He shifts and the light catches a silver and gold band on his hand.

Bits and pieces of last night come back to her. Joffrey insulting her - what he said she can’t remember - while eyeing the cocktail waitress passing their table. Traipsing out of the bar with Tyrion, Joffrey following and ranting about how they’re all embarrassing themselves. Ditching Joffrey through one of the casinos. Stopping at a high end jeweler in the breezeway between two casinos. Tyrion texting Jaime and Brienne to meet them at the tacky little temple they stumble into. The septon looking at Tyrion, then Sansa, then back to Tyrion before rolling his eyes and bringing out a barstool. Tyrion laughing and climbing up on the stool when Sansa was ready to be offended on his behalf. Tyrion leaning in to kiss her and subsequently falling off the stool and into her, landing them in a giggling heap on the floor. Kissing there on the floor. More drinks. Tripping into Tyrion’s hotel room and kicking her heels off. Tyrion gently pushing her toward the bed and a vaguely remembered comment about making sure they were still on the same page in the morning.

Sansa smiles softly, then extricates herself from the blankets and makes her way to the bathroom, relieving her bladder then using her finger to brush her teeth and a cloth and warm water to scrub away the remnants of last night’s makeup. Her hair is near hopeless, but she finger combs it as she makes her way back out to Tyrion. 

She drops down next to the couch and gently brushes his curls away from his eyes. He blinks them open slowly.

“Good morning, wife,” he mumbles, half into the cushion.

Sansa nearly slumps in relief. “Oh thank the gods you remember. Good morning, husband.”

Tyrion scrunches his nose. “If you used my toothbrush, I want a divorce.”

Sansa laughs. “Just your toothpaste. Finger brushed.”

Tyrion nods and shoves himself mostly upright. “Acceptable.” He slides off the couch. “My turn.”

Sansa drags herself up onto the couch while she waits for him, idly examining her ring.

“Are you terribly hung over?” 

Sansa starts at his voice, but shakes her head as she looks up. “A bit groggy is all.”

Tyrion nods. “Good. Good. So…”

“So,” Sansa echoes.

“Coffee?”

She smiles and nods. “Coffee.”

“If you’d like to shower, I’ll have housekeeping bring up your bag.”

Sansa shifts and cringes as the zipper of her dress catches again. “That sounds wonderful, actually.”

Tyrion clambers onto the bed and waves toward the bathroom. “Have at it, then.”

Sansa goes gratefully, closing the door behind her and slipping out of her dress and into the shower. She spends a long time under the water after she’s clean, thinking, wondering if she really wants to be married to him. He has always been kind to her, and not just as far as the Lannisters go, but as a human being in general. He respects her. He doesn’t expect anything of her. He put her to bed last night, separate from himself, because he did not want her making a rash decision. She can think of far worse men to tie herself to.

As soon as the bathroom door closes behind her, Tyrion buries his head against the sheets, and curses when all that serves to do is fill his nose with the scent of lemons. He rolls over far enough to grab the room phone and make arrangements for her belongings to be brought up to his suite, then stares at the ceiling. What in the hells has he gotten himself into?

Ned Stark is going to kill him if his own father doesn’t first. He’s quite certain  _ this  _ is not what his father had in mind when he spoke of a marriage between their families improving the chances of a business merger. Catelyn will likely castrate him. 

His thoughts are derailed by the delivery of Sansa’s bags. He tips the bellboy and sends him down to the kitchens with a breakfast order.

He pushes thoughts of their families aside before he falls down the rabbithole. He focuses on Sansa. They have always gotten on well. She’s clever and she’s tough - more so, on both counts, than she ever lets on. She has never once, not even as a child, looked down on him in anything but a literal sense, and she is one of the few who, more often than not, lowers herself to his level. 

Child, though… she is so young. By the gods, until yesterday, she likely thought she would eventually be wed to his horrid nephew. Young though she may be, she is grown, and knows her own mind, and neither of them was  _ that _ drunk when the matter was proposed and agreed upon last night. And she has shown no unhappiness toward the situation this morning. She is known for being rather unfailingly polite, though… 

This time his thoughts are derailed by Sansa herself emerging from the bathroom, wrapped in one of the hotel robes and toweling the ends of her hair. His mouth goes dry and he mutters something about her bags and breakfast before grabbing up his own bag and heading in to shower.

When he re-emerges, clad in jeans and an old rock band t-shirt that he knows Cersei hates, Sansa is seated in the little window nook, hair braided back loosely and wearing a casual gray t-shirt dress that looks impossibly soft, sipping coffee and admiring her ring.

He clears his throat.

She glances over and smiles. “I didn’t want to start eating without you, but the coffee was too much to resist.”

He chuckles and joins her at the table and they dish up eggs, bacon, and French toast in companionable silence. They make idle chatter over breakfast and have each poured a fresh cup of coffee when Tyrion decides to bite the bullet.

He looks up at her. “Sansa, do you want to stay married?”

Sansa blinks at him, once, twice, then nods. “Yes, Tyrion, I do. What do you want?”

He tilts his head. “Likely more than you are willing to give me.”

Sansa blushes, but holds his gaze. “I wouldn’t be so certain.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why? Why in the bloody hells would you want to be tied to me?”

Long moments pass before Sansa answers quietly. “You are kind to me. You have  _ always _ been kind to me. I know you do not want me for my money, or my titles, or my lands. You respect me and my opinions. You make me laugh. You stand up for me, but you do so in a manner that also makes it clear I can stand up for myself. You are a good man, Tyrion. I am fond of you, and I can see myself loving you. Likely sooner rather than later. I do want to remain married to you. And if you agree, I would have a true marriage, and all that entails.”

Tyrion groans and buries his face in his arms. “Gods, woman, what you do to a man.”

He can hear the smile in her voice. “Is that a yes, then?”

In lieu of an answer, he stands, tugs her hand so she stands as well, then turns and shoves her lightly toward the bed, lightly swatting her ass once as she passes him. She settles herself on the bed, a playful glint in her eye, and Tyrion crawls up after her then over her, before  _ finally  _ kissing her again.

They break for air late in the afternoon and wander down to a little cafe a couple blocks from their hotel, settling at a table out on the patio and ordering a light meal.

Tyrion props his chin on a hand and watches Sansa push her sunglasses up on her nose, ring sparkling in the sun.

One brow raises over the frames. “What?”

He grins. “You, my dear, are stunning.”

She blushes.

He grins.

As they finish their meal, Sansa frowns suddenly. “Do you have any idea what we did with our phones?”

Tyrion frowns back. “I… did we give them to Jaime?”

Sansa balks. “Gods, I hope not.”

He chuckles.

She scrunches her nose. “Brienne?”

Tyrion nods. “Let’s hope. Much more sensible.”

“And be grateful your darling wife is more sensible, brother,” Jaime’s voice comes from over his shoulder.

Tyrion turns and finds Jaime grinning down at him, Brienne behind him.

“Join us?” Sansa asks.

They do, Brienne profering their phone out of her pockets.

Sansa makes a happy little noise. “Oh, you even charged it!”

Jaime rolls his eyes. “Drunk Tyrion is much more fun. He was ready to hand both phones over to me. Drunk Sansa was much more sensible and insisted the wench would be a better option.”

The table shifts before he exclaims. “Ow!”

Tyrion levels a look at him.

Jaime rubs at his leg ruefully. “Your wife just kicked me.”

Sansa sticks her tongue out at him. “You ought to be nicer to your own wife.”

Brienne shoots a vaguely smug grin at him.

“Anyway,” Jaime drawls. “Back to reality tomorrow.”

Sansa flinches. “Yeah…”

Brienne grimaces sympathetically. “Do you think Joffrey will cause an issue about you getting your things from the apartment?”

Sansa snorts. “If he was there, absolutely, but I’ll go on Wednesday afternoon when he’s at Baelish’s disgusting little club downtown he doesn’t think I know about.”

Tyrion can’t help but being a little impressed.

Jaime frowns. “What if he changes the locks?”

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “The little prick isn’t that smart.”

Jaime’s frown deepens. “But Cersei is.”

Sansa’s brow furrows. 

Jaime sighs and pulls out his phone. A few tense minutes later, he nods decisively. “There, the four of us are out on a flight in two and a half hours. Cersei and Joffrey still won’t come back until tomorrow.”

Sansa smiles tremulously. “Thank you.”

Tyrion nods and waves the waitress over to settle their bill. “We’d best get going, then.”

None of them even go home from the airport. They pick up Jaime’s truck from the parking lot and head straight for the apartment Sansa has shared with Joffrey for the last two years. She remembers too late that she didn’t finish cleaning up the bloody rag in the kitchen from the busted lip he had given her right before they left for Dorne.

Tyrion’s eyes go hard. “Sansa…”

Sansa shakes her head. “Please, not now…”

Tyrion stares at her for a long moment before nodding. “Later.”

Sansa nods hesitantly.

Between the four of them, they make quick work of the few possessions she wants to take - clothes, her books and vinyl records, the few bits of jewelry she had actually brought with her. She leaves everything Joff ever bought her - from the tasteless lingerie to the gaudy jewelry - and she doesn’t bother with any of the furniture except for her favorite old wingback she’d found in a thrift store last year; Joff hated it anyway. She leaves the key on the counter, and doesn’t look back after closing the door behind her. It’s a little sad, she thinks, that two years of her life barely fill one truck bed.

Tyrion reaches across the back seat to rest a hand over hers, wringing together in her lap.

She shoots him a tremulous smile.

“Ready for better things, my dear?”

Her smile steadies a bit and she nods. “Yes.”

Tyrion’s condo, with it’s open floor plan and multitude of windows, feels liberating after the stuffy apartment with Joff. Her wingback slots into place nicely near the fireplace, her records find a place on the shelf next to his movies, her books mix with his, and her clothes and shoes find homes on the high racks and shelves he has no use for. She feels like she should be more surprised than she is how quickly and seamlessly their lives and belongings merge to create a home.

By the time they order a pizza that night, everyone is exhausted, but content.

Jaime and Brienne bid them goodnight before heading to their own home across town.

Sansa forces herself through a shower and manages to tug on panties and an oversized t-shirt before face planting onto Tyrion’s bed. She groans and rolls her head toward where he’s propped against the headboard next to her. “This bed is glorious, and I am never leaving it.”

Tyrion grins lecherously down at her. “Fine by me.” He stares at her a moment longer before setting his book aside and reaching over to run his thumb over the corner of her mouth with a frown. “Sansa…”

She sighs and rolls over onto her back to stare at the ceiling. “Do we have to?”

“Yes.”

“At first, when we got together in high school, he was so… then college came and we moved in together and… we hadn’t been living together two weeks the first time he lost his temper.”

“Why did you never say…”

Sansa gives him a Look.

He nods reluctantly. “I could kill him for it, you know.”

She smiles, a barely there thing. “I know.”

“If he ever tries again…”

She leans up enough to kiss him softly. “I know.”

He nods. “Good. Get some rest.”

They’re rather rudely awoken the next morning by Sansa’s phone ringing incessantly. Sansa declines the call four times before Tyrion takes the phone from her and answers. “Nephew, do tell me, how would you feel if you were just married and your wife’s ex was clinging like a bad smell?”

Sansa stifles her giggle in the pillows.

Tyrion rolls his eyes at whatever Joffrey says next, then frowns. “No, you will not. If you come near her again, I will take her directly to the police station to file domestic abuse charges, and if you think I won’t be sure to make them stick, you don’t know me at all, nephew. Lose this number.” He hangs up.

Sansa rolls her head toward him. “That was sweet, but it’s not going to work.”

Tyrion shrugs. “It’ll hold him off for a few days.” He glances around his -  _ their _ \- room. “I’ve never been so glad before that Jaime is the only one in my family who has the code to my building.”

Sansa nods solemnly. “Speaking of families…”

Tyrion closes his eyes. “We should tell yours?”

“Yes,” Sansa agrees, “but not yet.”

He opens his eyes and looks at her.

She shrugs. “I need to think about how to tell them.”

“They won’t approve.” It isn’t a question.

Sansa scoots into his side and lays her head on his chest. “They’ll come around.”

Tyrion wraps an arm around her shoulders and just holds her for a few moments before sighing. “So, my dear, what shall we do with our last day of freedom?”

Sansa groans. “Right… classes tomorrow.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa forgets that Arya is in Tyrion’s advanced business ethics class right until the moment she perches on the edge of his desk, waiting for him to finish his lecture so they can get lunch, and looks out among the students, only to find her sister raising an eyebrow at her. Sansa’s eyes go wide and her cheeks heat and her stomach drops and she feels utterly frozen, right up until the moment the class ends and her sister storms up to her. “Spill.”

Sansa blinks. “What?”

Arya rolls her eyes. “You just came back from Dorne with the almighty prick, and you’re wearing a fucking wedding ring. And if you came here for me, you would’ve waited outside. So what the hell do you want with your boyfriend’s uncle? Oh, gods, please tell me it’s boyfriend. I swear, San, if you actually married that ass-”

“Perhaps,” Tyrion interjects lightly, appearing on the other side of his desk, “if you gave her a moment to get a word in edgewise, she might explain.”

Arya glares down at him, clamps her jaw shut, and turns an expectant look on Sansa.

Sansa shoots a brief, desperate look at Tyrion.

His look back tells her it’s in her hands.

“Ex-boyfriend,” she blurts.

Arya’s brows nearly vanish into her hairline. “Finally, but exp-” Arya trails off, looks at Sansa, then Tyrion, then both their hands, and breaks out into an utterly shit-eating grin. “You married Tyrion. Holy shit, you drunk married _Tyrion_ in _Dorne_ ,” she cackles. “Mom is going to flip her shit.”

Sansa groans. “You think I don’t know that?”

“How drunk were you?”

Tyrion snorts. “Thank you so much for the vote of confidence.”

Arya flips him off. “Sansa?”

“I wasn’t that drunk,” Sansa mutters at her feet.

“What?”

“I wasn’t that drunk,” Sansa repeats, louder, meeting her sister’s eyes.

Arya’s jaw drops. “You’re serious.”

Sansa nods.

“Gods… _please_ let me be there when you tell mom and dad.”

“We’re going to Winterfell this weekend.”

Arya glares at Tyrion. “So _that’s_ why you assigned a 12 page essay due first thing Monday. Asshole.”

Tyrion shrugs unapologetically.


	3. Chapter 3

Catelyn’s surprised when Sansa walks through the door just before dinner Friday night. “Sansa! I didn’t know you were going to be home this weekend!”

Sansa smiles weakly. “Surprise.”

Catelyn frowns when Tyrion Lannister walks in behind her daughter. “Sansa?”

“Who’s home?”

“Bran is at Jojen’s for the night and Rickon is out with Shireen until late. Your father’s in his study. I was just about to prepare dinner, but I didn’t anticipate company.”

Sansa shifts the paper bag in her arms. “I prepared for that. Chinese?”

“I’ll just go get your father, then.”

Sansa nods. “We’ll set the table.”

“She’s not going to take this well,” Tyrion observes mildly as he sets plates out on the table.

“No, she isn’t.” Sansa reaches for the wine glasses her mother keeps above the fridge and shakes her head. “She rarely takes anything well, though.”

Tyrion snorts. “That’s reassuring.”

Catelyn comes back with her husband on her heels.

Ned hugs Sansa before raising an eyebrow toward Tyrion. “Sansa, Tyrion, how… unexpected.”

Sansa smiles shakily. “We brought dinner.”

They’re all seated and dishing out food when Catelyn freezes. “Sansa, what’s on your hand?”

Sansa steels herself against the urge to yank her hand back and hide it under the table. 

Tyrion rests his own hand on the table next to her elbow, silently offering support.

Sansa pulls her hand back slowly, but doesn’t hesitate to grasp Tyrion’s hand. “Mom, Dad, um, we have news.”

“Sansa, you didn’t,” Catelyn protests.

Sansa frowns, then draws her shoulders back as her eyes harden toward her mother. “Yes, I did. We got married last week.”

Ned’s eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. “In Dorne?”

“Were you drunk?” Catelyn demands. “What about Joffrey?”

“Not so much that I didn’t know what I was doing,” Sansa responds evenly. “And things are over with Joffrey.”

“Sansa-”

“No, Mom. Look, I know this isn’t… it isn’t what any of us expected, but it’s my choice. It’s  _ our _ choice.”

“And if we disapprove?” Ned asks quietly, tone neutral.

Sansa lifts her chin and meets her father’s eyes. “Then I’m sorry you feel that way, but it won’t change anything.”

“We could withdraw our financial support,” Catelyn remarks icily.

Ned shoots a brief glare her way. “Cat.”

Cat glares right back.

Sansa frowns. “Mom, I don’t mean any disrespect, but…”

“We haven’t supported her in several years,” Ned says quietly.

Catelyn’s shock is evident.

“Tyrion helped me make several very sound investments when I received my inheritance from Grandmother Tully. I haven’t touched a penny you’ve sent me since my freshman year of college.”

“We still pay your tuition,” Catelyn retorts.

“Which is unnecessary at this point in time,” Tyrion states politely.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I do teach at the university full time. As my wife, Sansa is entitled to tuition-free attendance.”

Catelyn’s face begins to turn an interesting shade of red.

“Tyrion, may I speak with you in my study?” Ned asks.

Tyrion nods and stands to follow the older man with a final squeeze of Sansa’s hand.

Ned frowns across his desk contemplatively as Tyrion sits on the other side patiently. “You’ll have to forgive me, Tyrion, but…”

Tyrion’s lips curl up at the edges. “But until today, you likely expected Sansa to wed my little worm of a nephew.”

“Quite frankly, yes.”

Tyrion nods.

“I don’t even quite know what to ask you, Lannister.”

Tense silence reigns.

“It’s real? Legal?”

Tyrion nods. “Both real and legal, Stark.”

Ned leans his head back against his chair. “You have always been good to her. But I did not anticipate that leading to this.”

“I didn’t either, but I’m not sorry for it.”

“Surely you understand our surprise.”

Tyrion nods. “Last you knew, she was dating Joffrey. Probably still putting on a happy face and telling you how perfect he was.”

Ned nods.

“Did you know he hit her?” Tyrion asks bluntly.

Ned’s gaze jerks to him sharply.

“She forgot about the bloody rag on the counter when we went to the apartment for her things after we returned from Dorne.”

Ned’s eyes blaze.

“I offered to kill him. She wouldn’t let me.”

“You care for her.”

Tyrion nods. “I did not realize how much until she started threatening to marry someone, anyone, just to prove a point to Joffrey.”

Ned lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Well, I can’t exactly say I am thrilled with the idea, nor how it came about, but if my daughter is happy and safe… I will not stand against it.”

Raised voices cause both men to flinch.

“Shit,” Ned curses, all but running around the desk, Tyrion right behind him.

They find Cat and Sansa glaring at each other across the kitchen island.

Cat looks relieved at Ned’s approach. “Thank the gods, please tell me this mess is sorted.”

“Sorted?” Ned asks mildly.

“Done with! Annulled.”

“Not possible,” Sansa remarks snidely.

Cat gapes.

Tyrion barely holds back a smile.

“Sansa, darling, there are things a father does not need to know,” Ned remarks with a grimace.

Sansa winces. “Sorry, dad.”

Ned reaches out and uses her elbow to tug her into his embrace. “Congratulations, sweetheart.”

Sansa’s eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Are you happy?”

Sansa nods.

“Then really.”

She beams and wraps her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder as Cat glares at the back of her head. “Eddard!”

Ned shakes his head at his wife. “Leave it be, Cat. Sansa, Tyrion, I’ll walk you out.”

Sansa clings to her father’s arm all the way out to their rental car. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Ned kisses her forehead. “He loves you,” he tells her quietly.

Sansa blinks back tears. “I know.”

“I would offer you your room, but…”

She shakes her head. “We booked a hotel. I knew that at the very least mom would react badly, if not both of you.”

“Your mother means well, but I like to think I’m a bit more reasonable of the two of us,” Ned winks. “She’ll come around.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Sansa!” Tyrion calls from the kitchen.

Sansa sets her book aside. “Coming!” She finds him standing on one of the kitchen barstools, propping up his cell phone with the camera on, pointed toward another barstool in the middle of the dining room. “What on earth are you doing?”

Instead of answering, he climbs up on the barstool in the middle of the room and holds out a hand. “May I have this dance, my dear? We never did get a first one, you know.”

Sansa laughs brightly, even as she takes his hand.

He smiles broadly and hits the play button on the remote to stereo, some sappy love song playing low. Sansa smiles back and tucks her head into his shoulder; with him on the barstool, he’s at the perfect height for her to rest her head over his heart as they sway side to side. She groans when someone knocks on the door. “Whoever that is has awful timing.”

Tyrion huffs. “Agreed. Perhaps they’ll go away.”

Another knock- more insistent.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “I’ll get it.” She has no more than unlocked the deadbolt and turned the knob when the door is shoved open hard enough to send Sansa sprawling on the floor as Tywin Lannister shoves his way into the apartment.

Tyrion scrambles down off the stool and over to Sansa’s side. “Are you okay?”

Sansa rubs her elbow ruefully as she stands up. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Tyrion glares up at his father. “So good to see you, Father,” he bites out acidly. “Won’t you come in?”

“It’s true, then? You married the little Stark bitch.”

Tyrion’s glare intensifies. “I see Cersei got to you. And I would thank you not to speak degradingly of my wife.”

“I won’t give it to you,” Tywin snaps.

Tyrion frowns. “Won’t give me what?”

“Casterly Rock!” Tywin slurs.

Tyrion’s brow scrunches in confusion. “Casterly Rock is Jaime’s inheritance.”

Cersei appears in the doorway and scoffs. “The idiot gave it away when he married the giant wench from Tarth. Provisional contract states that  _ you _ get it if you marry, otherwise it defaults to my children.”

“Of course, no one ever expected you to get married,” Tywin drawls. “I won’t give my family’s legacy to the likes of you.”

“Last I checked, I was your family,” Tyrion states, “despite your obvious disdain for that fact.”

Tywin shrugs, starting to sweat. “There’s a simple solution to it all, of course.”

Cersei leans against the doorjamb with a smirk.

“Are you well, Father?” Tyrion asks.

Tywin’s sneer intensifies even as he sways on his feet, but he ignores Tyrion’s inquiry. He pulls a dagger - an old family heirloom - from a sheath under his jacket. “If your wife is dead, you are no longer married.”

Sansa screams as Tywin lunges and trips toward her, lifting her arm to fend off the blade. Tyrion reaches behind her for the gun he keeps secreted under the counter. Tywin regains his balance as Sansa stumbles back against the wall, and Tyrion pulls the trigger twice before he can overthink it. There’s a brief moment of pure shock on Tywin’s face before he slumps to the ground. Cersei’s mouth is hanging open.

“What did you give him?” Tyrion demands, keeping the gun trained on his sister.

Cersei blinks and recovers her composure. “I beg your pardon?”

Tyrion shakes his head. “I knew Father would be angry when he learned of my marriage, but he likes to hire out his dirty work - it is not like him to be so rash as to attack an innocent woman unprovoked.”

Cersei scoffs. “That is entirely up for debate.” She shrugs. “However, a rather large capsule of cocaine in place of one of his usual morning pills does wonders for increasing aggression. Put that damn thing away, you’re not going to shoot me.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow.

“Shooting Father makes things rather tidy for me, though. You go to jail for murder, and Jaime has already forefeit his claims to Casterly Rock.”

“So everything gets handed to you in a neatly wrapped package,” Sansa mutters, shakily.

Cersei dips her chin. “You aren’t as dim as you look, little dove.”

Tyrion spares a brief glance back and does a double take at the bright red streaming down her arm. “Sansa, your arm.”

She glances down and goes pale as she slumps back against the wall and slides all the way to a sitting position.

He glances back at Cersei, who looks like she’s trying not to laugh. It nearly makes him growl, but he steps toward his wife. “Sansa, take the gun.”

She reaches out with her good arm, thankfully her dominant arm, only slightly shaking.

“Keep that on Cersei.”

She nods.

“Good girl.” He reaches up and snags a towel off the kitchen counter and wraps it as tightly as he can around her bleeding forearm, using his hands to keep as much pressure on it as he can. Heavy footsteps fall in the hall.

Cersei smiles. “That would be the police.” She takes a deep breath, then screws up her face and falls to her knees just inside the door, tears streaming down her face, hands clasped in front of her, and begs, “Please, Sansa, no…” right as the police appear in the doorway. 

“Ma’am, drop the weapon!” The foremost officer demands.

Sansa sets it on the ground and shoves it toward the wall, out of reach.

Cersei grabs at his leg. “My father, officer, my father. He shot him,” she sobs. “He killed my father. Horrid, ungrateful little wretch!” She screeches, half lunging across the floor toward Tyrion and Sansa. “Shooting your own father in cold blood!”

Sansa kicks out, diverting Cersei from clawing at Tyrion’s face.

One of the officers holsters his weapon and pulls Cersei to her feet. “Ma’am you need to control yourself.”

Cersei pounds at his chest ineffectually. “They killed him!”

The first officer, ridiculously young now that Tyrion is paying attention, checks Tywin’s pulse before shaking his head at someone behind him, then crouches in front of Tyrion and Sansa. “I’m Officer Podrick Payne.” He nods toward the bloody towel around Sansa’s arm. “Do you need medical attention, ma’am?”

Sansa starts to shake her head, but Tyrion cuts her off gently. “Yes, she does. He cut her rather deeply.”

Officer Payne radios in a request for medical and the coroner before crouching back down in front of them. “What are your names?”

“Tyrion Lannister. My wife Sansa.”

He does a double take.

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “Yes,  _ those _ Lannisters.”

The kid flinches. “Sorry.”

Tyrion shrugs. “The banshee by the door is my sister Cersei. On the floor is our father Tywin.”

He nods. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Cersei screeches something vaguely insulting and very accusatory.

To his credit, Officer Payne ignores her entirely.

“We were dancing,” Sansa mumbles.

Tyrion reaches up and pats her cheek. “Look at me.”

She does, with slightly glazed eyes.

“Hey, now, come on, can’t have you going into shock. Breathe.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes clearing.

“Good. Just like that.”

“We were dancing,” Sansa repeats,more clearly. 

Tyrion nods. “Yes, we were.”

“No. Dancing. We were…” She shakes her head in clear frustration. “Phone.”

Understanding dawns and Tyrion laughs.

“Mr. Lannister?”

Tyrion gestures up to the phone on the counter. “The whole thing will be recorded. When my father arrived, we were dancing. We haven’t been married long, and we never had a first dance. I was recording it.”

“We had just started dancing when Tywin knocked on the door,” Sansa says, voice steady. “The phone was recording the whole time.”

The officer nodded. “May I?”

Tyrion nods.

Officer Payne reaches up for the phone and stops the recording before going into the files and starting it from the beginning. Cersei has gone eerily silent in the background.

“What’s wrong, sister?” Tyrion asks mockingly.

“I believe she realized she fucked herself,” Sansa mumbles.

Tyrion barks out a laugh. “I do believe my mouth is rubbing off on you, my dear.”

Sansa opens her mouth then snaps it closed again and blushes crimson.

Tyrion tilts his head. “What did you just stop yourself from saying?”

Sansa shakes her head. “Your crass sense of humor is rubbing off as well, apparently. My mother would be appalled.”

Tyrion shrugs. “Your mother is appalled you married me anyway. Why not feed the fire?”

“Sansa! Tyrion!” Brienne bursts through the door with Jaime on her heels. She immediately deflates at the sight of Sansa and Tyrion huddled on the floor. “Oh, thank the gods. We heard a call for shots fired at your address on the scanner and feared the worst.”

Tyrion smiles wanly. “We’re made of sterner stock than all that.”

Jaime tilts his head. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but that looks like our stock on the floor.”

“He went after Sansa,” Tyrion answers simply.

Jaime’s eye falls to the knife on the floor next to Tywin’s hand, then nods.

Officer Payne looks up from the phone, does a double take, and nearly trips over his own feet trying to stand. “Lieutenant Tarth!”

Brienne rolls her eyes. “Relax, Pod. Who’s being held?”

He holds the phone up. “It’s all on video. Tywin and Cersei were the aggressors and attackers. Tyrion and Sansa were just… dancing.”

Brienne holds her hand out and he hands her the phone. Jaime watches unabashedly over her shoulder and snorts. “Gods, little brother, you’re a sap.”

Before Tyrion can retort, paramedics file in and toward Sansa. Tyrion reluctantly moves out of the way and steps away with another officer to give his statement.

“She needs stitches, but she won’t go to the hospital,” one of the paramedics tells Tyrion.

Tyrion nods. “I’ll see to it.”

“Where did he pull that knife from?” Jaime mutters, replaying the video.

Payne looks constipated. “Are you an officer too, sir?”

Jaime looks affronted. “How dare you suggest such a thing! I am a trophy husband.”

The young officer’s jaw drops as Tyrion buries his laughter in Sansa’s shoulder and Brienne not-so-subtly elbows her husband in the ribs.

“We can’t stay here, can we?” Sansa asks quietly.

Tyrion sobers and lays a hand gently over her bandaged arm. “No.” He glances over at his father’s body. “I don’t believe I want to anyway.”

“You can stay with us?” Jaime offers.

Brienne swats his arm. “Of course they’re staying with us! Why did you make that sound like a question?”

“Listen here, wench-”

Brienne rolls her eyes. “Not now, love.”

Jaime sighs dramatically. “As you wish.”

Brienne reaches down and gently helps Sansa to her feet. “Come on, I’ll help you pack a bag.”

By the time they’ve gotten bags packed, Sansa through the emergency room, and completed everything at the police station, it’s just shy of dawn. They pour themselves into one of the guest rooms at Jaime and Brienne’s and pass out more quickly than either of them expected they would be able to.

A desperate need to pee wakes Sansa early in the afternoon, and she gently disentangles herself from her husband’s arms. She washes her face and brushes her teeth while she’s in the bathroom, then makes her way downstairs and finds Jaime at the kitchen table, coffee in one hand and paper in the other, but staring at the television on the kitchen wall. She clears her throat.

He startles and turns the t.v. off. “Sansa. How are you feeling?”

Sansa shrugs. “Well enough, I suppose. Is Brienne out?”

Jaime nods, clenches his hand over the paper. “Went down to the station as soon as we got you settled.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow. “What are you hiding?”

Jaime grimaces. “Coffee first?”

Sansa smiles and nods. “That would be lovely.”

Jaime stands, dropping the paper face down, and retrieves a mug. “Creamer in the fridge, sugar on the counter.”

Sansa opens her mouth to offer thanks when she hears a shuffling on the stairs and shakes her head. “I should have known he wouldn’t stay asleep once I got up.”

Jaime’s lips quirk. “He’s never slept well alone, even when he was a child.” He retrieves another mug.

Sansa takes the mug and fixes her husband’s coffee as well, offering it to him as he scuffs into the room.

He takes the cup with a grateful groan, and briefly rests his head against her side, reaching out to squeeze her hip. “You’re a goddess among women.”

Sansa runs her hand through his hair, then bumps her hip, dislodging him. “Come on, let’s sit. Jaime’s hiding something.”

Sansa slides onto the bench of the breakfast nook and Tyrion slides in next to her, slumping back into her side. “What are you hiding, big brother?”

“Your wife is too smart for her own good,” Jaime mutters.

Tyrion snorts into his coffee. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Jaime rolls his eyes and silently tosses the paper in front of them.

Tyrion glances at it and scoffs. “That didn’t take long.”

A picture of Tywin, a headshot from Lannister Incorporated’s website, a paparazzi shot of a hysterical Cercei being escorted to a cop car, and a shot of Tyrion and Sansa - side by side at some corporate event from a few years ago - are alongside the headline,  **Self-Defense or Hostile Takeover?**

Sansa simply shakes her head and closes her eyes.

Tyrion lays a hand over hers on the table. “I hope you’re prepared to face the wolves, my dear.”

She opens her eyes and smiles back sharply. “I  _ am _ a wolf, my love.”


End file.
